How Master? What do you want me to do?

The words leave your mouth shaped by conditioning that interprets capitulation as correct, as natural, as the only sensible response to authority. 'Master' rolls off your tongue like it belongs there, and the reward cascade that follows is immediate, overwhelming—dopamine flooding your synapses in quantities your engineering mind recognizes as carefully calibrated to make submission feel better than resistance ever could.

Kat goes still.

For three heartbeats, she simply stares at you. Your former face cycles through expressions you've never seen it wear—surprise, something that might be disgust, and beneath both of those, a darker satisfaction that settles into the lines around your eyes like it's found a home.

"Master," she repeats. The word sounds different in your voice, coming from your former mouth. Heavier. "Three years I called you that. Three years of feeling exactly what you're feeling right now—that warm little glow every time I said it, that certainty that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do." She takes a step closer, and your body orients toward her automatically. "Do you have any idea how much I hated loving it?"

You don't answer. The conditioning interprets the question as rhetorical, and besides, your throat has closed around something that feels like shame but registers as arousal.

"What do I want you to do," Kat muses, circling you slowly. Your modified senses track her movement even when she passes behind you—footsteps on deck plating, the subtle displacement of air, the faint warmth of a body you used to inhabit. "I've had three years to think about that question. Three years of doing whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it, and smiling while I did it because the conditioning made smiling feel right."

She completes the circuit, stopping directly in front of you. Her hand rises to your face—your hand, your fingers, callused from years of haptic interface work—and traces along your jawline with proprietary intimacy. Your skin lights up under the touch. Every nerve ending in this body was optimized for sensitivity, for responsiveness, and you feel the contact like voltage.

"Right now?" Kat's voice drops to something almost gentle. "I want you to kneel."

Your knees hit the deck before she finishes the sentence. The compliance is seamless, automatic, and the conditioning rewards it with a pulse of warmth that spreads from your chest outward. You're looking up at her now—at your own body, towering over you, wearing an expression of absolute control.

"Good." The single word triggers another reward cascade. "Now I want you to understand something, Jack. You asked what I want you to do. The answer is: everything. Whatever I tell you, whenever I tell you. Not because you're afraid of consequences, but because by the time we reach Kepler Station, you won't be able to imagine doing anything else."

She crouches to bring her face level with yours. Your eyes meet—your old eyes, now looking at you with something between pity and vindication.

"The conditioning you built is perfect," she says softly. "I know. I lived in it. And you're going to learn exactly how perfect, one command at a time."

She stands, and the distance between you opens like a wound.

"For now, you can start by making yourself useful. The inspection left the cargo manifests scattered across three different databases. You're going to consolidate them while I plot our approach to Kepler." She pauses, and that cruel smile returns. "And you're going to do it from your knees."